


Songs of Dreaming and Past Experience

by made_of_lions_and_wolves333



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, Animals, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Love Poems, Nature, Poetry, Real Life, School, Spiritual, Wicca, mother earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 18:58:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 4,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12847440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/made_of_lions_and_wolves333/pseuds/made_of_lions_and_wolves333
Summary: A wide collection of original poems based on both myths and personal real life situations. Please, enjoy.(I also go by the alias of NickeltheRed on FF.net)





	1. a tangled web of dreams

**Author's Note:**

> These are all private Original Poems of mine which I've written during high school and college. They are the ones I'm also most proud of and straight from my heart; so please no copying of any kind, at least not without asking first. 
> 
> Thank you!

I.   
They appear out of thin air it seems, weaving their predesigned snares,  
great and small inside the master bathroom—   
stretching their netting corner to corner, tile to tile with their  
eight legs x5 all in counting, their red spinners too busy embroidering   
to acknowledge the flies kicking. 

II.   
They come crawling together along these soft green bedroom walls   
in a full clutter, a cluster of little black dots, scuttling  
up and around, swarming the ceiling, spreading out into dark streams.   
There’s a sound—   
a faint sound somewhere in the hazy background—  
like hearing a thousand teeth clicking and chattering   
as the hoard floods out of linear sight.

III.   
Arachne slowly enters through the doorway, almost looking  
dignified in all her Goliath hairy-legged glory, as if she   
wants the deliberate attention. And then she continues her path   
inward, gradually slinking and inching closer,   
closer, closer—

too close.

 

IV.   
It appears out of nowhere it seems, alone and sturdy,   
this time in the smaller bathroom of the house—  
descending from a shiny white strand of silk, just kind of   
hanging there, swinging left to right, its  
eight legs all relaxed in waiting, too busy baiting;   
though with a single swat,   
it sways aside and falls to the ground, splattered. 

V.   
She (apparently the critter is female) comes skulking over these dark  
wooden walls in solitude, in silence, resting in place like a purple bird settling down in her   
nest; there’s no sound, there’s nothing but shroud of shadows behind her and old pair of boots   
in plain sight. Her presence is weird, but appealing as   
reality becomes pretend, as the living critter remains just as she is—

she’s painted into colored-stained glass. 

VI.   
There’s two of them, crouching still against the   
stony bricks of the mantel, but the dominate one is   
unrealistically huge and gold in color, practically as big as the   
portrait picture frame beside them. It intentionally wants to be seen,   
as if to deliver a message, and then it flexes,   
moving and bending its legs outward—  
it grabs its partner to mate and devour.


	2. Large, Old Stone

That stone has been here for a long time, I’m pretty sure of that.   
It’s old, ancient, and it’s still there, enduring the rise and fall of the seasons.

I remember back then— the anger— that gut-clenching helplessness I felt—  
watching those selfish iron claws digging around that old stone,   
scraping up its bedding, its soil, its neighbors, its friends...  
it’s children, their roots, their weeds, and seeds!

Everything bled for the will of men that day, for the sake   
of their new storage shed, dammit.   
But thankfully, they kept that large, old stone   
where it sleeps upon the grass mound.

That large, old stone has probably seen the fish jump,   
seen the hills ascend from sand. It has probably seen these lake waters   
blend into one, seen the ridges turn to moss. And one day, when my bones   
cripple to dust, and our beloved Pleasant runs dry—  
it won’t matter. Since that large, old stone   
will probably be there still—  
just like ages before.


	3. Toes on the Edge

I am not all the way good all the time.   
I’ve made mistakes in the past,   
I’ve lied to my grandmother, I’ve ignored Sunday Confession,   
I’ve kissed boys behind closed doors, and   
I’ve been bored, careless, stubborn, selfish, childish, heartless,   
so hotheaded sometimes.   
I’ve walked in the blunt grey areas of modern life, cursing my fate and karma,  
carrying stress in my shoulder muscles, in my neck, across my back   
while juggling finances, work hours, family greetings, and academics to boot. 

Tough I never quite lost sight of that little glimmer of hope.  
There’s more to life than these brick walls and desks, more than those   
overrated accomplished passive-aggressive teachers,   
more that confusing one-size-fits-all freakin' mess they like   
to call a proper educational system. 

I am an angel who refuses to give up her Grace, but,  
I’m still not afraid to creep my toes to the edge of the clouds,  
leaning over ever slightly to smile on what’s happening below while feeling   
a little devious,  
adventurous, curious…

although I never fall away, at least,  
not all the way.


	4. Hymn to my Matron

Ancient Mother,  
Mother of mothers,  
mother of soil, of blood,  
of bone, of wheat,  
of tree and stone,  
of new life and moonlit nights,  
mother of deep caves and desert dunes,  
of honey, and roots, leaves, and fruits—

vast circling wheel of yearly wisdom,  
full of love and melody,   
around we go with windy breath,   
whispering promises of rebirth, fresh seasons,   
fertility and new reality— 

magnificent mother of mine,   
mother of wide open pastures and golden groves   
of the oceanic watery womb—   
of the snow and cool mountaintops—

Mother of all,  
you are surely   
worthy of your name.


	5. The Equinox, and Mine.

Swans always return to the lake this time of year.  
They’re here now, gliding over the water,  
a stark white against dark rippling blue.

I sit on the old green bench down by the sand watching them,   
as the new open waves free themselves from the ice’s cold binds,   
melting it,   
pushing it aside,   
swishing and rolling, against our muddy shore.

The grass beneath the soles of my short black boots   
is finally green again, and my dogs go huffing and barking,   
gleefully running around the trees and their twisting roots   
that stick up from underground. The sunlight is generous on this day.   
It’s a familiar, golden warmth. The rays beat down, sinking deeper into  
the cotton sleeves of my spring jacket, capturing and savoring their heat. 

The gentle wind grazes my cheeks,   
making my copper curls   
shift over my shoulders.   
And when I concentrate,   
I can smell the fragrance of the lawn, bittersweet and earthy,   
like a mixture of lime juice and sawdust.  
The browned oak leaves keep on rustling in the background   
like a little flock of fluttering feathers, whispering their love to each other,  
purring against the bark of their branches.

I must admit, it’s quite a pleasure being born   
on the 21st of the third month—   
traditionally the first day of the coming season.   
I grow older with nature, the planet, rejoicing life and renewal.  
I have the same birthday as every new Spring.


	6. Christopher

Alright, silly little Christopher, listen up!

Calling me and seeing me every day   
does not mark me as a man's flagged territory.

 

“No. I was never his girl.” 

 

Since the last time I checked—  
wishful thinking does not logically add up to equal our reality!   
Silly little Christopher, don’t you know?   
Didn’t you see how dangerous mere hope can be?  
Didn’t you feel it cutting you, and not cutting me?

Silly little Christopher, the boy who was once all smiles and blue shining eyes,  
had certainly left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. 

Girls like sensitive,   
he thought,   
girls like sweet, he said. 

Sure, okay. But this boy was so sweet, that it felt sticky, and messy.   
His boldness, and flattery, and words of bubbling desperation   
could leave any girl with puckered lips and ten cavities by the time he was done trying to woo her. 

And the very fact that he had been so passive, and so eager to please,   
simply looking for a hand to hold, and being too busy searching for a love song   
that could’ve been our song which bonded us for life...  
that, was what had put the nail in the coffin. 

For I came to realize he was the only one hearing the music,   
those wedding bells in the distance.   
Meanwhile, I only started to hear a noise... a reoccurring nuisance,   
a happy fly swarming around my ears   
that I just wanted to smack away if it got too close to landing a kiss to my skin.

Now, I must admit, that one fine strand of old childhood familiarity   
between us was a comfort for a time and sometimes, it was easy.   
I had often wondered how life was treating my silly little Christopher after we graduated.   
All good things, I hoped.   
But then his eyes had found me once again, six full years later.  
And all of his pleading, questioning, praising, hugging,   
and over-the-top compliments were just—  
never enough.

Never enough to make me believe he’d be my future groom,   
or the one who I’d make love to next,   
or the possible father of my x-amount of hypothetical children   
he was already counting on.

Those otherwise selected few funny and pleasant talks I shared with him,   
were, sadly, short-lived when in all honesty,   
all I can ever recall from our couple of months of   
playing around was what he had said in the end. That last thing.  
His final remark was filled with unneeded rudeness, naivety,   
a pinch of paranoia caused by stupid misinterpretations.

So, I was furious and emotionally wounded in return, and I  
gave him a stiff bow, graciously thanked him for his consideration,   
patience, and supposedly hard work in trying to get into my pants.  
I bid farewell to silly, imprudent little Christopher.   
That ignorant, tongue-wagging horny dog! 

 

“I was never your girl!” 

 

We weren’t even legit. Not even a serious real couple yet,   
and he had the nerve to open his mouth and accuse me of neglect and disloyalty?

I drew the curtains at that shit-show just in time and I never once glanced back.

 

“Well, so much for that promising romance...”

 

 

Basically,  
Christopher only seemed to be in love   
with the idea of falling in love with me.   
(What a silly, little boy he was).


	7. Reeling ‘Round

Upon this moonless night  
I caught sight of a flickering light,  
slinking, pulsing, winking, blinking, breaking through  
the glistening winter’s might.

Upon this moonless night,   
I follow the strange flickering light in my curious sight,  
right through this nippy frosty bite.  
And upon this moonless night,  
I soon feel the green of Spring’s natural Rite. 

Snowy hills fade with the icy site,  
melting down to show blades of newborn grass   
spreading forth left to right.  
The strange flickering light takes holds of me  
like a twisting sunshine rope and it guides me in warmly,   
enticing, beckoning, tempting me with some sort of siren’s melody—  
Spritely, lively—  
I am leery, but still lovely tis the rarity—  
It shades me, clouds me, sooths me, singing sweetly,   
all to lure, using the power of something   
amazing and pure.  
Beyond the thinning of the Veil,  
I take part in their revelry and   
I no longer question or snipe. 

Their Light Queen blesses me before   
Her Woodland King smiles, offering me fruits, red and ripe. 

We all go a’hopping,   
flitting, circling, twirling, whirling,   
tap-tapping about to the   
popping beat of the pipers’ olden pipes, knowing,   
learning, leading, webbing, weaving, waning, healing,  
And so I move, and leap, and reel, and dance  
upon this moonless winter’s night.


	8. Zombie/Shaken Convictions/Late Night Contemplations/A Hermit Crab

(Zombie)

Z ealous during every living feast that is found  
O uter lands, inward lands, cities, townships unlike all crumble into all unmarked tombs  
M ercy slowly becomes a mere ghost of a word, hardly remembered, hardly praticed  
B ones are breaking, creaking, cracking as the bodies fade to dust, rotting from within  
I n sheer malice, black-green teeth grind, gnash, and hollow hearts, the walk goes on  
E ach day passing has no meaning, no sunrise, no ending to this ever blinding night

 

*

 

(Shaken Conviction)

 

Sometimes it’s not the belief systems  
that have their flaws  
it’s the people who preach them

just as a clear natural spring turns out to be a  
grimy pond in the end, the water just  
slips between my fingertips

 

*

(Late Night Contemplations) 

As I lay here exhausted, 

but still somewhat awake and restless,

 

I’m on the verge of tipping between both worlds, 

not quite staying on in one place. 

Now I know how ghosts must feel.

 

*

 

(A Hermit Crab)

I continued to curl, and bend,  
and fold, and retreat  
further into a shell of soothing discomfort,  
a half-distorted form of logic.


	9. “This is what chanting sounds like here.”

God the Father, Gaia the Mother,  
Creators of Manifestation,  
Teachers, Angels, Masters Above, Relations who have come before me—   
come once again,   
for I invite you in.

God the Father, Gaia the Mother.  
Ganesha, Kali, Ixchel, Cerridwen,   
Diana, Pele, Athena, Aphrodite   
Ioanna, Freya, Hera, Hecate, Bast,   
White Buffalo Calf Woman, Holy Virgin Mary,  
the Gnome, Undine, Sylph, the Salamander.  
Come, God the Father, Gaia the Mother,  
Teachers, Angels, Masters Above, Old Ones,  
divine creators and manifestos!

I see past these misconceptions,   
which the outer world believes are truth.   
I run out of the funhouse filled with fools and jesters.  
Their masks smolder, stripping down to cinder and rotting flesh.  
I feel this tale of falsehood breaking, splitting, unwinding   
as I, instead, face that burning rose bush. 

I will tread, steer, lift, and scrape  
myself through this thicket of thorns and scripture thumbers,  
over moonless skies and grassy hills—  
following that glittering rose bush on fire.

Krishna, Horus, Pan, Cernunnos, Vishnu  
Saint Francis, Saint Anthony, King Solomon,   
Lord Jesus, Buddha, Osiris, Lugh  
Moses, Jesus, Aegeus, Green Man,   
I will find my own rightful path  
out of this Personal Oblivion.


	10. Sons and Daughters/Shine

(Sons and Daughters)

 

He said his sons would   
rise above everyone else in greatness  
before they’d fall into history.

But she said that her daughters   
would beaten down first and rise anew from the ashes,   
stronger than ever for the future.

 

*

(shine)

I will save you, dear one,   
I will shelter you by Heaven’s creed;  
I promise to love you, guide, and to comfort you

but patience is a virtue  
and please, you must keep that in mind,   
just a tad bit longer

I am just not fully prepared right now, dear one,   
not tonight at this late hour

I do want to be here for you, I do

I want to stand behind you,   
and defend you,   
if—

if only you let me use this time to   
polish up my bruised halo and  
rest and flex my tattered worn-out wings,   
then, I guarantee it’d be worth the wait,  
so please, sleep now, dear one

for at first light, when the sun wakes,   
by all means feel free to lean on me, your Earthly Angel,  
and by then I will be ready to shine once again


	11. Where it Leaves You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a very significant loss in my family last year, two younger brothers of mine, this was the written product of me trying to vent and cope with that reality while struggling in school.

There are truths you didn’t want to hear,   
and they leave you fragile and raw to the bone.   
You cry when you’re angry, and you’re silent when you’re sad.   
Now your heart is off leash, away from its home, where it's supposed to be.  
O, my heart, where did it go? It's lost, and it leaves you  
running out in the wild where it’s cold trying to find it,   
and it's dark and everything is unfair, confusing, and knotted up with fear.

And you can’t stop chasing you’re own tail,  
can’t snuff out the hidden pain because it’s not a scar you can   
show off on your skin; it runs deeper than all that.   
It’s a burn that starts within your soul's core and it only grows,   
festering in the low pit of your stomach,   
making all your insides hot and boil over.

Gradual acceptance of your current reality only makes your day worse,   
and you choke on your pleas for help, for some release,  
even if it’s just for a minute.   
You feel trapped in this messy and weedy maze you call your mind now,   
and you wonder if there is any escape, an emergency exit somewhere.  
You begin to decipher these mental blocks and barriers with basic logic,   
desperately attempting to make sense about what exactly led you here in the first place. 

Is this life? And if so, then why are we here to live this life   
instead of that life?

And you want to live, you want to be good,   
and you want to laugh again and move on   
from this fit of depression, obsession, repression, or whatever   
fucked up name it’s goes by these days.

You want to sing, and love, and breathe, and offer so much,   
much more than you probably ever receive in return.   
But you still suffer, stuck in the shadowy version of  
yourself, while your old pleasures and joy turn against you,  
mocking you, and suddenly you’re back to square one, feet nailed down,   
hands bond, eyes blinded, with a heavy cross putting splinters in your back.

You begin to bleed at the heart, breaking like glass, alone in the dark.

 

Your steady approval of your newest reality just makes you feel hollow,   
and lighter, and you swallow on words of recovery, on the small release that   
simply comes with time; because time is healing.   
For time changes us. It takes, then restores, even if it’s over the course of one week, or really,  
five fucking years. 

The riddles in your mind are slowly connecting themselves back together   
and your current state of sanity is less unsettling, less spiteful, less torturous.   
You begin to reflect, tearing down those mental blocks and barriers   
with forgiveness and a soft smile, desperately trying to make amends with  
the part of you that you ignored and neglected for far too long. 

You know now.  
Let yourself cry, or joke,   
or celebrate the memories that remain because   
at you’re feeling something again.  
And feeling like this, means that you’re a survivor.  
You know new things about this life, and so,   
you come to admit it, that you’d rather have this life  
than no life at all.


	12. born with a wolf's skin

when the other sheep in the world look at me,

I’m sure all they see is nothing but big, soft eyes  
and a pure, untouched fleece coat,

harmless,  
innocent,  
inexperienced,  
and needs to be protected at all costs

 

but I am not afraid because I am a newborn lamb  
sheltered between my shepherds and my flock

no, in truth, 

I worry that none of them can see the

 

fierce, primal,  
hot blooded,  
cultivating,  
territorial,  
and protective at all costs  
she-wolf who hides in plain sight underneath.


	13. Dear, Opal Child

Dry your eyes, Opal Child, please.  
The milk was already dropped,  
and the damage is done.  
It’s no use fussing about it now.

Really, what did you expect them to say?  
What do you expect _me_ to say?  
I know you’re struggling, my Opal Child.  
I know, I can see that.  
You poor thing.  
Your heart has been splintered by so many evils,  
by harsh words, hurtful phone calls, and endless schemes.  
You’ve been wronged over and over and _over_ again. It never stops for you, does it?  
You’ve been torn down, ridiculed, and knifed by the lingering shadows  
of your past and now, you can’t sink any lower, you just can’t.  
Can you?

And what’s worse,  
the buzzing voices of this era won’t grant you  
the praise you need, the encouragement you deserve!  
You don’t understand why they won’t lift you up higher.  
You’re wondering why your popularity isn’t enough anymore—

why your influence isn’t as potent as it used to be,  
or why everything you do or say  
must be crushed beneath their heels soon after.

Dear, sweet Opal Child,  
You were born the fresh fruit of this country.  
Upon drawing your first breath, from the day you started to crawl,  
you were destined for greatness, for greatness was in you!  
You happily believed that once.  
That same greatness runs in your father’s blood, in your mother’s womb,  
even in your grandmother’s portrait.  
Even as a little one, running around all those neatly-planted trees,  
with your pretty golden curls bouncing at your neck,  
your upbringing was cozy, graced with titles and importance.  
Your elders wanted the best for you, and so? You got the best. You had the best.  
You were groomed,  
sanded down, and polished until you stood out  
like the lovely gem you are today.

Though I do feel like I have to ask,  
who are you trying to impress here?  
You’ve got nothing to prove to those other girls,  
the girls more like me.  
Just sit there and look pretty, because that’s your pure talent.  
You are the victim. You’re always the victim. You're flawless.  
You literally have gold and privilege at your fingertips, so fight it?  
Why try so hard to paint yourself as the less-significant girl who  
wears hoodies and battered old sneakers, when  
all of your closest friends and role models  
are slick, delicate, and constanly dripping with diamonds?  
They’re certainly not afraid to show off their fortune, so,  
why should you waste more of your time denying yourself  
that same air of ignorant bliss?

You have the ideal image,  
the spotlight, the fame,  
and you still wonder why the rest of the common souls  
can’t relate to you, or why they won’t allow themselves  
to pay more attention to you? To stand beside you as your equals?  
Well, sweet Opal Child, maybe  
not all of them have three separate houses along the beach, like you do.  
Maybe most of them are just too busy working, or paying off their taxes,  
or volunteering at the shelters and actually getting their hands dirty.

You are Opal, the awaited child,  
the jewel that will surely change the hearts of men.  
And, we both know that  
you need your fans to survive.  
Don’t ignore the life you chose!  
You clearly have many more angles, sides, and faces than we do.  
They're always changing color depending on the lighting or  
who’s watching you,  
who’s buying what you’re selling.

No matter what it takes, I know you will still outshine them.  
There’s no stopping it now.  
I know you’re not greedy...

you’re just ambitious, is that it?

You’re not rude,  
just... honest, huh?

No, of course you have no faults, dear Opal Child.  
You never seem to recognize those mishaps that might be  
anchored deep inside of you, slithering through your psyche  
which betray your sweet cupcake words.

So, don’t you dare cry over spilt milk,  
and don’t dwell on the thorns you leave  
in your wake.

You’re too good for us,  
so just forget it.


	14. witches

Throughout the green and lush Western hills  
your confident priests claim be wary,

wary of females born with skin pale as milk,  
and freckles that make out  
the visual shapes of  
the hare, raven, cat, wolf, bear, and snake,  
with her eyes kissed by the blue and steely waters of the sea,  
her hair lively red and ever wild as the Devil’s own fire

 

So, once you’ve found the witch  
amongst her coven sisters, her mother,  
her aunts, and their daughters,  
standing with their heathen teachers  
trailed closely by their wedded incubi lovers—  
do not hesitate to shame them,  
to spite them, smite them,  
or belittle them.

Please, the Clergy of the Light beg of you, to give  
that smart bitch,  
that defiler and betrayer the  
good and only honest Words our new Book can provide.  
Bring them the pure wrath of God!  
Batter them bloody to your best judgement.  
Rape them if you must—  
Strip them of their wickedness,  
their poison, and villainess voices.

 

Of course it's not wrong if it’s for the overall Good of our cause.

 

And, be calm during this mission.  
Do not fret over spilt blood, or damage you may  
thrust upon them.  
You do not want to be misled, dismissed, or resisted.  
No matter how much those ungodly ones  
cry, weep, shout, and shriek,  
do not stop your cruelty.  
Truly, it just means that it’s working,  
that you’re on the right track and  
those wayward ones are bound to bend and break and go dark  
because they are nothing like you.

 

 

 

Follow them not into curiosity.  
The only footsteps you need to mind are the ones  
already printed out in front of you.  
Never stray from the path we paved just for you,  
all for you.

 

You have a role to play here, so don’t forget it.  
Make our goal your goal.  
We offered you destiny and eternity and serenity.  
You are a part of an even greater plan.

Go now, we give you our blessing.  
Burn their stocks, bury every last seed  
and cut down their forest and groves.

 

 

Steady now, no more tears,  
no more questions, no more doubt.

  
Just tear down their temples, and corrupt their gods.  
Take over their rituals, calendars, and their symbols too.  
Steal them for yourself— surely we need them more than they do.  
Ignite the pyres, fasten the noose,  
rake in the leaves until there is no opposing evidence left behind.

Cherished son, devoted disciple,  
keep on digging those graves until no one remembers they exist.

Thou shall not suffer them to live—  
even if it costs of your own precious life.


	15. bryttemyst

Brought together by a thousand words, two screens, one linear connection

Ready to answer each other’s Call to Arms and sing hymns of happiness or injustice

Yet we do not forget, that we both have conquered many demons thus far, and we wear our scars like phoenix wings

Time does not untie the bonds we have nurtured and put much dedication to braid together

Time has, if fact, became our ally for once and has merely strengthened our tattered hearts to heal as one

Every crack, every chip in my armor, every past ache seems lighter when we reconcile and resettle and hold private council

 

My amigo, my soulmate, my Khalasar, my sister wolf, my fellow She-Serpent, and above and beyond

You are so dear to my yesterday, and to all stages of my current journey

Seas and varying lands plainly haven’t the power to tear us down so far

Today is for you, for us, and I will carry this weight with you into the horizon for as long as I am able 

 

 

 

**Happy Birthday.**


End file.
